There are lives of men plainly told, and undoubted, where re-formation,—that is self-formation,—appears like a flash of electric fire. The Will in such men has energized, just as intellect flashes out in its noblest condition of genius; and can best be described by the poet or the seer who knows what it is to create, and new create. These lives more than realize Cæsar's boast;—the truly human soul came to itself,—saw itself,—and overcame. The conqueror did a deed which, (truly done,) was done for ever, and yielded him the presage of perpetual peace.

Histories of self-conquest do, however, remarkably differ in respect of the time employed upon the work. Some victories are, as we have said, rapid and brilliant as the march of Alexander,—others slow and embarrassed, like the weary path of a pilgrim through deserts of rolling sand. But no pilgrim who is in earnest need despair. Putting aside all consideration of supernatural aid, he may take courage from the essential greatness of his own human being, when contrasted with the being of all creatures below mankind.

The comparison sets out from this question:—What can merely animal nature do to raise itself? Man, we know, can train certain brutes—he can entrap all;—but no brute can in any wise deliver himself from the snare of a single appetite. The weakness, as well as the strength, of animal intelligence lies in the vividness of its instincts. Animals appear conscious of the working of powers within themselves; and they apprehend those functions, with the performances of which their powers are correlated. Hence, in part at least, the pleasure of a bird in nest-building; a bee in storing her comb, or a predacious creature in its successful pursuit of prey. But the relation between animal power and function appears so nearly fixed, as to be hedged round by narrow limits; and only in a very small degree susceptible of modification. So far as we can discover, the brute is deficient in the means of self-education, for three distinct reasons. One, because he cannot escape fulfilling the normal functions of his unreasoning impulse. In the second place, because he is unable to overcome the urgency of one innate power, by opposing to it the claims and vigour of another. Thirdly, he can never introduce anything new into the relativity between power and function. He can command no spring of high aim or creative thought, which might give new purpose to his better powers, or open out some further sphere of activity before unknown.—Were this possible, he might lift the functions of his common life above their old destinies, and above themselves.—And this would be a work of self-education.

To pursue our comparison,—we must remember that the ability for self-education and the capacity for being educated, are correlatives; and we may measure the one by the other. The animal world has never shewn strength enough to raise itself very high;—it has never ceased to be distinctly animal. But, has it ever possessed latent powers for which opportunity was always wanting? Mankind, for their own purposes, have (we know) continually been testing[ao] the endowments of inferior creatures. How high, then, can man by his endeavours raise the animal race?—He can generally train them to a greater quickness in the exercise and nicety of their own instinctive powers, and a more enduring performance of their instinctively presented functions. By reward and punishment, he can inure them to some degree of self-restraint; and he takes advantage of a thousand pretty impulses and fondnesses of animal nature, to call into being attachment,—nay, often passionate devotion,—towards himself. In this sense, Man has been styled the God of his domestic brute—his horse, his dog, his elephant. It would be a curious subject of reflection, to inquire what effect might possibly be produced upon the human mind by the visible presence, and incessant influence, of beings, as much higher than men, as men are higher than brutes? The moment we start this idea in our minds, it is difficult to evade an impression that Man must be a desolate creature, if he can never in some way see the Invisible.[ap]

To leave this curious point. Nothing appears more really conclusive against all supposed capacity for great development, than the history of what are called "learned animals";—of the mechanical means necessarily employed for teaching them, and the mechanical results obtained. There is indeed no better word to describe the true state of the case; than the term "mechanical," as opposed to everything that is ideal, or truly creative.[aq] If a brute could idealize the laws of outward nature,—or the laws connecting his own powers with their proper functions, he might see them as a Man does, and give them a fresh existence within his own intelligence. He would then be able to invent an alphabet, conceive a picture, and view the properties of outward objects as universals inwardly apprehended. In this way, he would acquire exemption from the reign of mechanism, and live a really creative life. Possible conceptions—ideal functions—would require new powers to realize them;—and these powers would be searched for and found. Or, vice versâ, an idealized power,—a power seen, (not as it is, but as it may be)—would lead to the discovery of fresh functions,—new fields of enterprise,—new realms of imagination.

It is manifest at a glance, how far in fact these conquests are from the world of creatures, by us, therefore, called unreasoning. Art, letters, and abstract thought, are no visitants of the animal sphere. Words cannot come where thoughts are not; and therefore language, in the human meaning of language, is unknown to brutes.[190] And no effort made by Man has ever been successful in sharing with his humble companions any one—(much less all) of these attainments. His artistic sense of Beauty, and power of giving it varied expression, find no Echo beneath himself; he can in no wise teach by historical record, poetry, abstract calculation, or abstract thought. Neither can he impart the true secret of social sympathy,—and forbid the stricken deer to weep and die alone. Intelligence without imagination, cannot conceive a sorrow so lonely or unseen. Therefore, it knows little of deep sorrow,—for even the mortally-wounded bird will strive to hide its wound.[191]

Now, in each and all of these respects, every human being devoted to self-education starts from the plain fact, that Man is educable:—

"Parents first season us,—then schoolmasters."